Close and Nothing More
by JustMakeLeftTurns
Summary: Everyone seems to think that Sherlock and John are boyfriends. They don't see it like that. Now a series of 221B ficlets.
1. Close and Nothing More

**I recently got into 'Sherlock' and really wanted to write this. It's my interpretation of John and Sherlock's relationship (and then some). This is my first 221B fic, so I hope it's okay.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any of the characters.**

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Neither of them noticed anything different. They were becoming closer friends, that was all. There was nothing wrong with a playful grin after an … interesting case. There was nothing wrong with sitting close together so that their knees touched, nor was there anything wrong with touching hands a little too long, just to remind the other that he was there, that neither of them was alone. And if one of them was shaken after a particularly bad case – whether or not he showed it – then it was completely normal to hold the other until he fell asleep. They were close, that was all.

Although they didn't notice anything strange about their closeness, it seemed like everyone else did. Mrs. Hudson congratulated them on multiple accounts. Mycroft commented on their dependence on each other once. Lestrade, Donovan, even Anderson noticed their closeness. Neither of them cared; after all, they both knew they weren't boyfriends, but they were more than just best friends. They didn't need to label their closeness, their dependency. John wasn't gay. Sherlock was asexual. No sex was involved. They enjoyed each other's company. They held hands in their darkest moments. They shared a bed when nightmares got the best of them. And if one sometimes gave a peck to the other's lips, well, that was no one's business.


	2. Labels

**Thank you for the reviews! I'm glad you liked the first 221B fic. I might make a miniseries of these.**

**I apologize for the quick ending. 221 words really sneak up on me.**

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John looked over at Sherlock. Everyone's comments about him and his flatmate were starting to get to him. What if they were right? What if he and Sherlock really were boyfriends?

"What is it, John?" Sherlock startled the man out of his thoughts. "You obviously have something to say, so why don't you just spit it out?"

"What are we?" the doctor blurted. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Human beings, I would hope," he replied dryly, returning to his violin.

John huffed. "You know what I meant. Are we … dating?"

"Does it matter?" Sherlock played a brief tune. "Labels are for you simple-minded people. So dull." John went to speak but Sherlock continued on. "What does it matter what we are?"

"What matters is that I'm. Not. Gay," John stressed. "I'm not attracted to men."

"And that matters, why, exactly?"

"This … this _thing_ that's between us … I'm not gay. So why does this feel right?" John collapsed into the chair across from Sherlock.

"Sexual attraction is different from romantic attraction, for one thing," Sherlock said. "For another thing, sexual orientation is fluid; you're not 'stuck' as gay or straight or whatever forever. That would be boring."

"I'm not in love with you," John replied. "But I definitely feel close to you."

"Good. Because without you, life would be boring."


	3. Nightmares

**Thank you everyone for your support! This is the first of three drabbles I managed to write today.**

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Some nights were worse than others. This was one of those times, Sherlock noted. He heard John yelling in his sleep, heard the choked sobs. His heart, cold and indifferent as it usually was, clenched with each cry. Mycroft may have deduced that John missed the war, but Sherlock knew that war still changes people. John still had occasional nightmares about friends lost, people who died while he tried to save them, the overall terror of war.

Sherlock waited until he'd heard John startled himself awake before entering the room silently. John didn't stir as Sherlock sat beside the doctor and ran a hand through his hair. Neither spoke. Neither needed to speak. When John had calmed down, Sherlock made to leave; he knew that John hated being caught in a vulnerable position just as much as he did. John grabbed his wrist, though, and said so quietly that Sherlock had to strain his ears to hear, "Don't leave."

Sherlock didn't comment on John's fear, although his face softened. He simply crawled under the sheets beside John, who grasped onto his hand. Sherlock rubbed his thumb gently over John's hand. John closed his eyes and leaned his head on Sherlock's shoulder, slowly allowing himself to relax. Sherlock rested his head on John's, listening to the steady sound of his friend's breathing.


	4. Relapse

John watched Sherlock carefully. Sherlock had been doing so well, John thought, but in the end, the temptation was too great. That was why the doctor had to watch Sherlock at all times. The detective had been caught with a half empty pack of cigarettes in his pocket and white powder in and on his nose. "Had no needles," was all Sherlock had said to John's sudden presence. Needless to say, John rid the flat of both cigarettes and drugs within the hour.

But now, Sherlock shook from the loss. He'd yelled and demanded for relief. John's heart broke for his friend but ignored Sherlock, the hardest thing he's ever had to do. He did his best to encourage Sherlock, to take care of him, but the detective would have none of it. When he wasn't yelling, he pouted, refused to speak to John. The doctor refused to give in. Even when Sherlock tried to push him away, he still gave a pat on the shoulder or a brief touch of the fingers while handing over the newspaper. Every little touch was a reminder that they were in this together, that John wasn't leaving. That John was there every step of the way.

They'd get through it. They'd gone through worse. This was just one more thing they had to beat.


	5. Bad Days

**This one goes off into a bit of an AU/headcanon. Hope no one minds!**

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John had once told Sherlock that he'd had bad days when over in Afghanistan. What Sherlock didn't seem to know, or realize, was that he still had bad days. He just had to deal with them differently now. In the war, when he felt too low or angry or desperate, he allowed his inner killer loose on the opposing forces. Even as a doctor, he had the same instincts as any other soldier: kill or be killed – physically or mentally or emotionally. Here, in civilization, he didn't have that choice, that opportunity to let go of his emotions – at least, not legally. He quickly discovered another way to release, then quickly realized what it was like to have an addiction.

He was always careful. He never did it around Sherlock, tried not to do it in the flat. He was a better liar than Sherlock took him for. As far as he knew, Sherlock had no idea what he did to himself. But, as was bound to happen, he got carried away. He couldn't – wouldn't – stop.

And, of course, that's how Sherlock found him. It took Sherlock all of four seconds to deduce what John had been doing. John broke down and Sherlock held him, both upset that John had reached the point where he wanted to, had to, bleed.


End file.
